Lion Head Mesa [m] crackling

Disa had not chosen a den. Something about nesting in the mesa's pockets made her feel like a maggot in a slab of meat. She would sleep by the  budding garden until the uneasy feeling passed - or forever, of it didn't.

The sight of a sorry creature leaving the mess's interior to retch violently did not sway her in favour of a rocky home.

"You're sick," the little wolf commented, stopping outside the splash zone to look at the contents of Serein's stomach. She did not know much about disease, but supposed blood was a bad sign.